


Collected Tumblr Prompts

by mapped



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Canon-Typical Violence, Curtain Fic, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, F/F, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-22
Updated: 2016-08-05
Packaged: 2018-07-26 01:04:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7554205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mapped/pseuds/mapped
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of prompt fics I wrote on Tumblr. Various pairings but will mainly be Silver/Flint, Max/Anne, and James/Thomas/Miranda.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Silver/Flint: Morning kisses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for mistflarden's prompt on Tumblr:
> 
> _Silverflint: one of them waking the other up with kisses_
> 
> Canon-era curtain!fic.

John opened his eyes to the grey light of a world on the edge of dawn, and James’ face inches from his, their bodies curled towards each other, knees touching. James’ eyes were still closed.

It was not often that John awoke earlier than James, and he treasured this rare sight of James, asleep, breathing quiet and even in the cool air of the early morning. James’ moustache and beard were more pale-gold than orange-red these days. He still kept his head shaved to John’s eternal dismay; John wanted to see what he would look like with a full head of that lightening hair, the colour of a pristine beach gleaming under the tropical sun. Perhaps John could yet persuade him to grow it out again.

Never mind that he’d tried and failed for over a decade already.

He smiled, thinking of that time long ago when James had first shaved his hair in an expression of grief in his cabin on the Spanish warship while John lay by the window, wracked with pain and slipping in and out of consciousness.

A few weeks ago, when John had brought up the business of the hair again, James had said, “I keep it like this to remind myself of what I lost, and how much I gained despite that loss.”

Surely John’s own presence was reminder enough, but James could be silly like that, and John had come to grow rather fond of James’ sentimental quirks. He even felt a sweet ache in his chest at the significant look that James gave him upon uttering that statement. _How much I gained._ Like John was worth more than all the gold in the world.

And of course he was. Gold meant nothing to either of them now. How much that cold metal had mattered to both of them once, that so much blood had been shed in pursuit of it. And now the only time John thought about gold was when musing upon the colour of James’ beard.

John thought about the day that lay ahead of him now. Another day of gardening, reading, cooking, feeding and coddling their several pets. Years ago he never could have dreamed of this, and yet here he was.

Years ago James would never look at peace unless he slumbered—and even then, more often than not he was still plagued by ghosts and haunted by nightmares of all that he’d done and all that he might have to do still. Now, all he might have to do in a day was kill some persistent weeds, avoid being pecked overmuch by Captain Flint the parrot or clawed by Betsy the cat, and make a delicious stew.

John wasn’t afraid to wake James because he knew James would look even happier awake than not.

He brushed a hand over James’ soft, white-sand beard, and then he lowered his hand to James’ arm and placed a kiss where his hand had been before, on James’ jaw. Another kiss, just a little higher. And higher, until he reached James’ mouth, which opened to his, wet and warm.

James was awake. John smiled against his lips and murmured, “Morning, my love.”

He felt James smiling back into the press of their lips.


	2. Silver/Flint: Breakfast in bed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for hawkbi-pierce's prompt on Tumblr:
> 
> _I would just love some domestic early morning silverflint fluff. no preference for modern au or canon :x_
> 
> Modern AU.

It was James’ birthday, and so John had got up extra early (a whole hour in early in fact), put on his prosthesis as quietly as possible, and slipped out of their bedroom to go make James breakfast. A full English. It couldn’t be that hard, right? He’d bought all the ingredients the night before. He’d come home, stuffed it all into the fridge, and then James was back and they’d gone out for dinner. James shouldn’t have had any reason to check the fridge and notice the sudden abundance of sausages and bacon. If he had checked the fridge, the surprise would surely be spoilt. James was the chef in the house; John only bought groceries whenever James handed him a shopping list.

He blearily pulled up a recipe on his phone, laid out all the ingredients before him, and set to work.

Nearly an hour later, he was finally done. It had proven a lot more difficult than he’d expected, juggling all the various components of a full English breakfast at once. He’d burnt the sausages a bit—maybe more than a bit, maybe a lot. Probably better that than undercooked though. He had served James undercooked pork once—the first time he invited James over to his house, he’d tried to make a Sunday roast. ‘Tried’ being the keyword. He didn’t know what had got into him then, honestly. He’d never put that much effort into a date, ever. And then James had come along and John couldn’t seem to stop fucking _trying_. He’d wanted to impress James so badly, and he’d kept failing but somehow, somehow James had stayed anyway, and he was still here now.

The bacon was burnt too—but the good kind of burnt, he hoped. Crispy. The eggs were fine, if a tad overdone. The mushrooms looked okay, and so did the tomatoes. The baked beans were probably the best part. He’d only had to pour those out from a can and put them in the microwave.

The kettle clicked. He poured the hot water into two mugs that held waiting teabags, and then he picked up a plate in one hand and a mug in the other and went into the bedroom.

James was sitting up in bed, glasses on, reading a book.

“What the hell?” John said, forgetting instantly that he was supposed to greet James with a sweet ‘happy birthday’ or a romantic kiss or _something_ that wasn’t this. “You’re not supposed to be awake!”

“You were making a fucking racket in the kitchen,” James said, putting down his book and taking off his glasses with a look of resignation. “How was I supposed to sleep when I had to listen to you clanging every single pot and pan we have?” 

“Oh,” John said. He felt stupid. “I’m sorry.” He put down the plate and the mug on the bedside table. “I’ll just—”

“You idiot,” James said, and reached up to him, pulling him down with a hand behind his neck until their mouths met in a soft, lingering kiss that made John feel all liquid and golden like a runny yolk.

Which he unfortunately had not managed to achieve with any of the eggs he just fried.

“Thank you for making me breakfast,” James said gently. He eyed the plate and added, “Those sausages look severely burnt.” He brought John down again for another kiss, hard and quick. “You’re an awful cook. Absolutely terrible. And I love you.”

“Oh,” said John, again. “I love you too.” He grinned. “You haven’t even tried the food yet. Maybe it’s not as bad as you think it is.”

James ducked his head, laughing. “You haven’t brought in any cutlery yet.” 

Oops. He turned to go back to the kitchen and then he spun around on his heels again. “Happy birthday,” he said, remembering at last.

“Don’t remind me that I’m old,” James muttered, mouth lifting into a smile. “Now get me a knife and fork and bring your own plate in here before we’re both late for work.”

When he came back into the room, James was holding a charred sausage in one hand and chewing. John spluttered with laughter.

“What?” James said, indignant. “I’m hungry—you woke me up too early. And these sausages are cold and half-charcoal.”

“At least they probably won’t give you food poisoning like that roast pork I tried to make you eat once,” John said.

James considered this. “At least there’s that,” he conceded. “You’ve come far, John Silver.”

Pleased, John sat down on the bed and snuggled up to James, pressing their arms together.

They ate; or more accurately, James ate while John kept distracting himself and James by mouthing kisses all over James’ bare shoulder. “The beans are all right,” James commented, and John nipped his ear, traced a wet line on James’ neck from earlobe down to collarbone with his tongue.

James groaned. “We have to go to work,” he said. “Hurry up and eat and stop kissing me like that.”

“Can’t we take the day off?” John mumbled.

“No, you lazy shit,” James said, fondly. He set down his empty plate and kissed John’s cheek. “Unlike you I actually like my job. You can kiss me all you want tonight.”

“Oh, I will,” John said, smirking and lowering his voice with hushed promise. “I’ll kiss you everywhere.” James’ face flushed a gorgeous pink in the pale light of the morning.

John would kiss James all he wanted forever, if James let him. And it was looking more and more like James just might let him.


	3. Silver/Flint: Flint doesn't die

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for an anon prompt on Tumblr:
> 
> _Silver/Flint - canon era, Flint is injured and Silver thinks he's dying, but then he's fine, please? I'm so afraid the next season is going to end with Flint dying ;___;_

For a moment, Silver almost thought that he’d been hit.

And then he realised that it wasn’t him—it was Flint. He and Flint had been standing so close to each other, shoulder to shoulder, breathing and moving together as one beast, one snarling monster, that for a single, shocking moment, he’d mistaken Flint’s shudder, Flint’s sudden gasp, for his own.

Then Flint was on the ground, and Silver was somehow still standing, and they were no longer one entity, but Silver felt impossibly distant—from Flint, from the battle still raging around them, from his own body. 

“Captain, _Captain_!” he might have cried out. Or he might have uttered no sound at all. He was barely aware of what was happening. He could not drag away Flint himself—he was not physically capable of such a feat. Two men rushed to the Captain’s side. The Captain could not stand; he was groaning and clutching scarlet hands to himself. The men picked him up and began to carry him away.

Silver was torn—stay and fight, or follow?

His men needed him. But God, _God_ , he needed Flint.

Flint. Who had shot Flint? He didn’t know.

Well, that meant he would just have to kill them all, to guarantee vengeance.

So he stayed, let the pure fuel of rage burn through him. 

He did not know how he managed to make it through the battle alive and sound, or how the fuck they managed to _win_. He only remembered fragments of it: the sick snap of bone under a forceful blow from his crutch, flesh beaten to red, wet pulp, fearful pleas tumbling from foreign mouths, cut off before their utterance could reach completion.

But then it was over, and the enemy had fled, and Silver—Silver hadn’t really ever _run_ since he lost his leg, but he was doing his best imitation of running now, crutch almost slipping a few times, slick with gore as it was.

He found Flint, who was still waging his own battle against death, eyes closed and breathing feeble.

Silver sat down gracelessly on the ground beside him. “You can’t fucking die,” Silver said. “You can’t. Fucking. Die.”

Flint made no reply, but his eyes flickered half-open and he slanted a glance at Silver, a glance that lasted no more than a second. His eyes were shut again so quickly that it might only have been a figment of Silver’s imagination.

* * *

There was nothing Silver could _do_. He’d saved Flint’s life before, hauled him out of the ocean when all Flint wanted to do was drown. He’d talked Flint into not sacrificing himself when they had been caged by the Maroon Queen. He’d come up with countless schemes to ensure Flint’s survival. Both their survival.

But now, what could he do except sit and watch Flint die?

Flint had been transported back to Mrs. Barlow’s house where he could rest in relative peace and quiet, away from the moans and screams of the other wounded and dying. He mostly slept, and when he awoke occasionally, Silver fed him and read to him, and they did not speak of anything. Not his grave injury, not death, not the end of the war. Flint seemed too weak to speak much, at any rate, but his eyes always felt heavy on Silver. 

Silver could only think about how Mr. Scott had stayed alive for a whole fortnight just to die anyway, and he could not help but fear that this was to be Flint’s fate too.

 _Nothing is inevitable_ , Silver remembered saying once. If only he could believe in his own words now.

But words could accomplish nothing here, nor could action.

* * *

What about blind faith?

Flint was fevered and unconscious. Dr. Howell had just visited and cleaned and dressed the wound anew, his countenance grim.

“I refuse to let this be the end of you,” Silver muttered after Howell left, feeling more angry than defeated all of a sudden. He wiped the sweat off Flint’s face with a cloth. “You’ve done this before, you’ve cheated death a million times. You can do it again. If you can bend reality to your will, you can _live_ if you want to. I know it.”

He imagined Flint saying, _Why should I want to live? I have been fighting far too long. It would be good to sleep forever._

“Because we won,” Silver said. “You don’t have to fight anymore. You can stop being Captain Flint and walk away from the ocean like Odysseus or whatever it is you always wanted to do.”

_With all that this victory has cost me, with all the blood I have shed in payment for it, perhaps it is only fair for me to lay down my own life in return._

“We’ve fucking been through this,” Silver said. “I have persuaded you to live before. Why won’t you do it again?”

 _I’m sorry for my greed._ It was truly disturbing how he could carry on an entire conversation with Flint in his head like this. _But I seem to need a better reason from you each time, John._

Did the Flint in his head just call him _John_? Silver grit his teeth and felt tears in his eyes all of a sudden, that he might never get to hear the real Flint say that.

“I _want_ you to live, dammit,” Silver said. “Is that a good enough reason? James. I want you to live.”

_Why?_

“Don’t ask me why,” Silver said, squeezing his eyes shut and feeling the tears escape. “You know why, damn you.” _I’ll walk away from the ocean with you and milk goats for the rest of my life if I have to, if you live, if you’ll take me along._

The Flint in his head smiled. The real Flint continued to lie there silently, face pale and damp.

 _Did_ Flint know why?

Silver hoped so.

* * *

“John?”

Silver started, dropping the book he was reading onto his lap. That wasn’t the Flint in his head, that was—

Flint’s eyes were open. “I need water,” he said, voice hoarse and rough, but still sounding the strongest that Silver had heard since Flint had been hit in battle.

Silver grabbed his crutch and scrambled up from his chair, picking up the jug from the bedside table and pouring a bowl of water. Flint was moving to sit up, and he actually managed to do so without any assistance.

He looked like he could even hold the bowl himself, but Silver held it for him anyway, tipping it slightly and watching as the water flowed past Flint’s cracked lips. Flint was looking at him with those grey-green eyes, and Silver felt like he was seeing sunlight for the first time in weeks, though even right then the day was bright outside.

“I’m starving,” Flint said, when Silver set aside the empty bowl.

“I’ll—see what I can do,” Silver hurriedly mumbled, and went to cobble together a simple meal as quickly as he could.

* * *

Dr. Howell visited again, and wore a look of surprise on his face the whole time.

He pulled Silver aside afterwards. “The Captain—he seems to be on the mend. The wound’s beginning to heal. It looks like he might just pull through.”

Silver was almost too afraid to believe it, but that man was a goddamn miracle after all.

* * *

“You’re going to live,” Silver said quietly. It was late at night, and he’d just finished reading a book of the _Meditations_ aloud to Flint, who had confessed a few days ago that he would find it comforting if Silver could read Marcus Aurelius to him.

“Yes, I think I am,” Flint said softly. He was sitting up in bed, gazing at Silver. He’d even got out of bed this morning for a few minutes, on wobbly legs.

“Thank fuck for that,” Silver said, and Flint chuckled and winced at the same time, but the sound of his laugh sent a warm shiver through Silver’s body. Flint was _alive_. 

“So,” Flint began, voice quavering as if he was nervous, “what say you about walking away from the ocean with me, now that the war is over and I’m somehow not dead?” His face was doing that little hesitant, smiling squint that Silver had seen more and more in recent months and become very fond of.

Yes, Flint did know.

The short distance between the chair where Silver sat and the bed Flint occupied suddenly seemed like the ocean itself, and Silver could not bear it any longer. He put down the leatherbound volume, whose pages held the secret of Flint’s love, and he hobbled over to the bed and sat down beside Flint.

“Of course,” Silver said, in reply to Flint’s question. He covered Flint’s hand on the bed with his own, lining up their fingers together. “You may have fought this war for Thomas, but I—I fought it for you.”

Flint looked at him in wonder, reaching out with his other hand to brush his fingers under Silver’s jaw, gentle and light. “John,” Flint said, and then stopped, as if he could not find the words, but that one word was enough. To hear his name spoken like that—Silver would be satisfied if he never heard anybody say his name apart from Flint ever again, as long as he could hear this over and over for the rest of his life.

He brought his hand to the back of Flint’s neck and kissed him.


	4. Max/Anne: Anne pampering Max after work

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for mistflarden's prompt on Tumblr:
> 
> _Maxanne, modern au: Anne pampering her girlfriend after she comes home from work :D_

Max sets her bag down with a sigh, and Anne asks, “Rough day?”

Max nods. She gathers all of her hair to one side and starts wringing the thick bunch of black curls in her hands in exasperation while she tells Anne about her clients. Anne goes into the kitchen, still listening, and takes out the pie from the oven. She didn’t have a volunteering session at the women’s refuge today, so she’s had plenty of free time to experiment with recipes again. She quite likes making pies, she’s found, and she likes eating them too. Max seems to like them as well, so she keeps making different pies for them to try—some sweet, some savoury. This one’s a turkey pie. They have all this leftover turkey from Christmas dinner that they need to use up still.

Max’s face lights up when she sees the pie. Anne cuts her a slice and watches her eat it. Max makes a face initially at the turkey but then she says, “I have to admit I did not think you could make anything so delicious out of all that turkey.”

“There’s still more turkey,” Anne says, and Max makes another face, but she gobbles up the entire slice and forgets all her complaints about work for a while.

Anne doesn’t have to work at the club tonight, so they have all the rest of the evening to themselves and they can go to bed together. Anne likes working as a bouncer at the local gay club but it does mean that for three nights in the week she leaves for work almost as soon as Max gets home, and isn’t be back till the early hours of the morning when Max is sound asleep.

After Max puts down the plate, Anne goes and stands at the bathroom door silently. Max is only just taking off her jacket now but when she’s done, she notices Anne lurking by the bathroom and immediately takes her meaning. She joins Anne in the bathroom, and they take off their clothes and step into the shower together, Max putting her hair up in a bun to keep it out of the way from the water.

Under the hot stream, Anne massages Max’s shoulders with foamy hands and Max leans back into her and says, “Merci, mon ange,” and Anne feels as light and bubbly as the lathered soap in her hands.

Without bothering to dress, they wrap themselves in fluffy towels and run from the bathroom into the bedroom, the only place in the flat where they keep the radiator on pretty much constantly in the winter and therefore the only place in the flat that isn’t completely freezing. Anne throws the plump duvet around Max, who isn’t as good at dealing with the cold. Anne herself sits on the bed behind Max and starts to comb out Max’s hair and braid it the way Max has taught her how, while Max grabs a bottle of baby blue nail polish from the bedside table and paints her own nails.

Afterwards, when Max’s nails are dry and her hair is done up, Anne sits back against the pillows and pulls Max to sit in front of her, between her legs, Max’s back pressed snug against her chest. She wraps her arms around Max and kisses Max’s neck and says, “You’re so pretty.”

Max turns her face and Anne kisses her cheek before Max says, “You’re beautiful too, ma chère.” She starts to tell a funny story about Idelle from work, clearly not feeling as tired and annoyed anymore.

Anne usually likes to spend her nights off fucking—she does like fucking a lot, and thankfully Max has a high sex drive to match hers. Sex with Max is good in a way Anne doesn’t have the words to describe, but right now she just wants—this.

Max’s skin is warm and smells sweet from the shower. Touching her reminds Anne of the woods she used to play in when she was a kid, sunshine filtered through lush leaves, mossy bark under her hand and soft soil under her toes, how safe she felt enveloped in the protective silence of the trees around her.

Anne starts to think about asking Max to marry her. She isn’t good at these things, but she knows that Max and her are forever, she’s known for a while now. Max isn’t the sort to be coy with her affection and she’s always made sure Anne knows just how much she loves her and how she’s in it for the long haul, for as long as Anne would have her, and Anne—Anne feels just the same. And she knows that Max would probably like it a lot if she asked. Max likes it a lot when Anne asks for—anything. Because Anne has never been very good at asking for what she wants, or even just recognising what it is she actually wants, but she’s getting a lot better at it now.

When she was a sulky teenager she’d had a hard time understanding it when other girls talked about their fantasy weddings, flowers and diamonds, gleaming white lace dresses and a guy who would say “I do” and kiss them, but now she looks at Max and thinks, _I wanna call her my wife_ , and it’s right. It’s what she wants.

She’ll think about how to make the proposal perfect later, something for Max to remember fondly for the rest of her life. For now, she’s happy to just hold Max’s hand and nuzzle her neck for a little while longer, and let herself just feel this without thinking at all.

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on [Tumblr](http://reluming.tumblr.com)!


End file.
